


Fatherly Pursuits

by hollowgrackle



Category: Hannibal (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Issues, FBI Trainee Malcolm Bright, Hallucinations, Malcolm Bright Whump, Medication tampering, Questionable therapy, malcolm collects dads like baseball cards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29184366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowgrackle/pseuds/hollowgrackle
Summary: After Abigail, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter have a complusion to collect the children of serial killers.In 1992 Malcolm's father was arrested for killing 23 people.[AU where Malcolm is one of Will's students at Quantico.]
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Hannibal Lecter & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm has a bad day at school.

It took jumping a few states for Malcolm to finally feel like he _could_. He could live without Dr. Whitly. He could exist without the constant pressure on his conscience. He could finally breathe. And he could finally feel years of expensive therapy making a difference. 

And he was making friends at the FBI. Maybe not best friends-- or even good friends. But occasionally someone would hold the door for him or make smalltalk in the hallway. It was nothing to write to his mother about but it was something he held in the back of his mind. Something that made him smile. 

Normal interactions with normal people. Or as normal enough people as Quantico attracted. 

Until he walked into his behavioral science class and his instructor dimmed the lights. The blank white background of his slideshow reflecting back into his glasses, pooling on the shiny desktops around the room. The chatter hushed as their attention turned to the front and to the whirring static of the projector. 

And then the slide changed.

“The Surgeon.” 

A rock hit Malcolm’s stomach. 

“Otherwise known as Dr. Martin Whitly. Loving husband and father of two. He killed 23 people before he was finally apprehended in ‘92 after a tip called in fro…” But Malcolm couldn’t hear anymore. His heart was hammering in his chest, bleeding through his ears. 

He could see his own life on the wall. Blown up large so that everyone in the back row can see with grisly detail the night his father was arrested. The night _he_ got his father arrested. Malcolm himself hadn’t seen these pictures in years-- not outside of his nightmares. His mother made good to keep newspapers out of the house until Ainsley had grown up. And family photos featuring their father were either tucked away or used for kindling. 

But paparazzi are relentless. And the internet is forever. 

He looked around, fearful that someone would recognize him-- see those big blue eyes and connect the dots back to the boy wrapped around the policeman’s leg. _Had his instructor said his name? Had he said Ainsley’s name?_ Malcolm couldn’t make his ears work. His brain jumped back to a conversation he had earlier, trying to remember if there were any suspicious details he let slip. Any breadcrumbs he dropped. 

No one was looking at him. It was fine. 

He closed his eyes, fists clenched on top of his notebook. Slowly, his professor’s voice came back. It wasn’t the most welcomed dialogue to listen to; describing his fa-- Dr Whitly’s Quartet. The state of the bodies. His methods. His tools. _The girl in the box_. 

But no. That wasn’t right. The girl in the box wasn’t real. 

Malcolm’s eyes snapped open and found his instructor’s flannel shirt had turned into a jumpsuit. And his curly hair turned into his father’s. For a moment, Dr. Whitly was standing before him. Teaching his class. 

Exposing his ugly family to his peers.

“... _and ooh, was I good._ _Isn’t that right, my boy?_ ” Dr. Whitly was looking directly at him, smiling in a way that made Malcolm shoot up out of his chair, torn between running or telling everyone else to run. “ _Twenty-three. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”_

But Dr. Whitly couldn’t be here. Dr. Whitly was in New York under lock and key in Claremont Psychiatric Hospital. Which meant he was... hallucinating. 

Malcolm felt a stab in his arm, snapping his wide eyes to the girl sitting behind him, where the end of her pen was prodding him. He was blocking her view.

“Oh. Sorry... I’m sorry.” Malcolm muttered, sitting back down. He noticed movement in the corner of his vision and to his horror found his outburst attracted more than one person’s attention. 

He stayed there for a moment, mind swimming, chest hammering, and then he shot up again and rushed for the door.

\--

If Malcolm had been closer with his classmates perhaps hiding in the bathroom like a socially afraid middle schooler would be more embarrassing. But that would assume he hadn’t already been that middle schooler. Curled up in the last stall. Counting the tiles until the bell rang. 

The only difference now was... well he was a bit taller. And his hair was a bit neater, though, not at the moment. He’d been grabbing at it. Swiping it back against his forehead. Squeezing it against his own skull. 

Malcolm struggled to convince himself it was a trick of the light and not a full blown hallucination. But the more he thought about it the more he could see his face. The more he could hear his voice. 

A sick thought came to him.

That after several months without a phone call or a visit that he might miss his father. 

His father. _Dr. Whitly_.

The Dr. Whitly that was serving a life sentence at Clairemont Psychiatric for killing people. _For fun._

His medication must be off, he reasoned. It was off. And he just needed to get a tweak. A higher dose. A glass of something expensive and some assorted pills from his mother’s purse. 

He considered calling Gil just to hear his voice and knock Dr. Whitly’s back into the recesses of his mind. But the man was busy. He had a job. And the guilt he would have for making him worry when Malcolm was on the other side of the country outweighed the rest.He was fine, really. _He was fine_. Or he was at least going to tell himself he was so that he could go back and collect his things without vomiting on his shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm meets his new psychiatrist.

“You believe yourself to be a very troubled man, Malcolm.” 

Malcolm’s mouth twitched upwards into a smile. “I  _ believe _ I might tick a few boxes. Yes. I mean, would I be here if I wasn’t?” 

It was for Gil in the end that Malcolm decided to look for a new psychiatrist. Not because his current one was incompetent— her hourly rate spoke for itself. But because she was in New York. And Malcolm was in Virginia. If Gil couldn’t be there then he said he would feel better knowing that Malcolm was seeing someone in person. That he was interacting with a human being outside of the occasional phone call back home. 

Somehow Gil hadn’t bought Malcolm’s story about keggers and sloppy push-up contests with his Quantico buddies. But if he had to guess it might’ve been because his strange hesitation when asked for their names, and Malcolm blabbed out the first and only thing that came to mind. Chris. Crayden. Yessica… other Chris. If he were still at Remington Academy those names could’ve gotten a pass. 

He swears he used to be a better liar.

Dr. Lecter came recommended. Supposedly, the man was good at his job. And judging by his office Malcolm was inclined to agree. His mother would’ve dropped a psychiatrist if she didn’t like the color of their curtains. And looking at Dr. Lecter’s curtains, he can’t imagine any complaints. Nor could he imagine any complaints about Dr. Lecter’s bookshelf balcony with art nouveau pillars, his expensive european rug, or his twelve foot high windows. 

Dr. Lecter was a show-off. And Malcolm hoped this confidence would translate to his therapy. 

“Would you like to talk about the incident that brought you here?” 

“The, uh, ‘my dad being a famous serial killer’ thing or the ‘learning about him in my serial killer class’ thing.” Malcolm shifted in his chair. It was angled back enough to force him into a reclined position that _seemed_ comfortable. And maybe would have been under different circumstances. New shrinks always had him on edge. It’s why he’s been with the same one for so long. “Or maybe you want to talk about how my mother never let me have a pet.” 

“And so you bought one for yourself. A bird.” Dr. Lecter said simply, his accent a little hard around the edges but steady. Seeing the strange expression on Malcolm’s face, he continued. “I have a very keen sense of smell.” 

_Well_ , thought Malcolm, _no one’s complained about it before._

“If you’d like, we can discuss your bird. Tell me, Malcolm, is there significance to you choosing a caged animal over a cat or a dog?” 

Malcolm didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t thought about it like that. She was just small. Small and manageable. And when he holds her she chirps. “...her name’s Sunshine.” He supplied after a moment. Dr. Lecter smiled. But it was slight enough that he nearly missed it. 

“When was the last time you’ve seen your father?” 

“The last time I’ve seen _Dr. Whitly_ \--” Malcolm paused as if he didn’t know when. But he did know. Exactly. The argument they had when Malcolm told him this would be the last visit had wedged itself firmly into his mind. “A few months ago. Right before I came to Quantico.” 

“But that wasn’t the last time.” Dr. Lecter’s black eyes stared at him. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Last week. In your class. Surely there were visuals to accompany the lesson.” 

“Well, yeah, a slideshow, but that’s not…” 

“And did it not have an effect on you?” _It did._

“I had a hallucination,” he admitted. “A, uhm. It was brief. You know, I blinked and he was there. I blinked and he was gone… I get them a lot. And night terrors, too. But the night terrors are-- I mean they’re definitely worse. I can’t live on campus because of them.” He can’t live with his peers. It was the same when he was at Harvard. It was alienating and humiliating. But it did allow him to adopt Sunshine. 

“Do these night terrors ever get violent?” 

Malcolm nodded, and when he looked up he thought he saw a glimmer of something in Dr. Lecter’s eye. A spark of interest. 

“I have restraints that I have to… to use. Is somebody at the door?” Malcolm had slowly become aware of a frantic knocking at the front door, attention snapping to the hallway. 

Dr. Lecter made a point of checking his watch before getting up smoothly and excusing himself. “I should take this.” 

Malcolm could hear voices in the hallway— familiar, tired, but steadily getting louder and more worked up. Occasionally Dr. Lecter’s own calm and steady voice cut through. Malcolm couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he suddenly felt like he should leave. He folded his long wool coat up in his arms and made for the front door. The path to which was, unfortunately, right through the middle of their conversation.

\--

Malcolm recognized his instructor before Will recognized his student. He was leaning against the wall, the same plaid shirt he’d been wearing to class but dressed down with a dirty green jacket. Malcolm was amazed the impeccable Dr. Lecter even let it into his home. HIs instructor looked a bit crazed, his thumb and forefinger pinching his eyes. Dr. Lecter stood in front of him, and craned his head towards Malcolm when he turned the corner. 

“Malcolm,” he greeted. Will had stopped rambling now, glancing towards Malcolm, although anywhere but his face. This wasn’t that unusual. Will, brilliant though he was, seemed awkward and strained at the best of times. When he lectured he never looked at his students, prefering his hands or the corners of the walls, and when he answered questions he always seemed to have trouble putting a face to the name. 

“Well,” He started, jingling his coat slightly. “I’ve gotta get going. My session is just about done anyway.” It wasn’t. But Malcolm didn’t feel comfortable staying anymore. Dr. Lecter stared at him and Malcolm thought for a moment the man was going to call his bluff. But Will was faster.

“Session?” He asked, confusion with a snap of embarrassment. “You’re with a patient? I thought we— What time is it?“

“You’re on time, Will.” Dr. Lecter said calmly. “Or you would be if it were Saturday” 

“It is—“ 

“It’s Friday actually, Mr. Graham.” Malcolm pipped up.

Will finally looked at him. Really looked at him. “Malcolm… Malcolm Bright.” Will must’ve remembered his name from an assignment. Or perhaps he’d made a bigger impression on him than he thought. 

Malcolm smiled. “Anyway. I’ll leave you guys,” he made a slightly humorous wave with his hand. “You know. To it.” And then started to squeeze past them to get to the door. 

“You should stay for dinner.” Dr. Lecter suggested before he could turn the handle. “I won’t force you. But I would love to have the two of you for dinner.” 

Both Malcolm and Will were hesitant. This didn’t seem strictly professional. But Will, not wanting to be alone with himself, eventually agreed and dragged his body further into the house. Malcolm watched him go, still lingering at the door. “I don’t know if that’s—“ 

“I must insist.” Dr. Lecter waited until Will entered his office study and then lowered his voice. “I think our mutual friend needs someone to keep him company while I prepare the meat. I do hope you’re not a vegetarian, are you, Malcolm?” 

His big blue eyes shifted back to Dr. Lecter’s. Malcolm could read people too. And the man was right. If he was Will’s psychiatrist he wouldn’t want to leave him alone either. Then again, if he was Will’s psychiatrist he probably wouldn’t throw him a dinner party and invite his own student. “Is he alright?” 

“Are you?” And Dr. Lecter put his hand out, easing Malcolm’s coat from him. "Let me take that." 

The choice was made for him. He was staying for dinner. 


End file.
